


Strange Love

by Violetwylde



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cuckolding, Gangbang, Group Sex, M/M, Rimming, Spitroasting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-30 17:24:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14501886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetwylde/pseuds/Violetwylde
Summary: Strange (slang) - Noun1. Sex outside your current relationshipExample: John coordinates a night of epic strange for his beloved.This is a story of trust, vulnerability, and exploration. This is a story of latent military kink, cuckolding, and copious sex.





	Strange Love

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be an 800 word drabble. Many months later, I hope y’all enjoy over 6k of gang bang, cuckolding, aftercare, and tender assertions of love.
> 
> Special thanks to Ellipsical-elle, who encouraged me to give this story the room to grow. And to all my fritter friends who have cheered me along. You guys are amazing!
> 
> And thank you to Wheresmysupersoup, who sent the prompt so, so long ago. Its not exactly what you asked for, but I hope you enjoy!

It started with a documentary on modern warfare. More specifically, on the evolution of combat dress. And even more specifically, with the way Sherlock's attention had trained on the television screen.

Then came the late night admission, whispered across a cool pillow, _'I want to be used.'_ Hearing those words made John shiver with a combination of uncertainty and excitement that he didn’t fully understand. He reached for Sherlock’s hand, rubbed this thumb over the body-warm platinum band, and whispered, _'Tell me.'_

It took months to orchestrate—phone calls and emails and piles of clean STI screens. But it had been worth it to open the door to a dodgy hotel room and see Sherlock's jaw drop at the sight of all that khaki and camo. Nine men in full kit—Sherlock had whimpered.

It started like any other do, with a round of introductions. Ranks and surnames and military divisions that had Sherlock shifting his weight on his feet. After, the air in the room seemed to thicken and still—a humid summer day, heavy with the static charge of a coming storm. John could taste the anticipation like ozone.

The tension broke with John's crisply barked order. “Walker, O’Neal. Why don’t you help Sherlock out of his clothes.”

A twisted pleasure crawled under John’s skin as he watched hands that weren’t his own move over the familiar planes of Sherlock’s body. A phantom smoothness caressed the tips of his fingers as the men slipped the pearl disks of Sherlock’s shirt buttons through their holes.

Between the bulk of two strapping soldiers, Sherlock was stripped naked—clothes left to pool on the tatty carpet. Walker pressed his broad chest to Sherlock’s back, and slid his wide, dark hands over the pale slope of Sherlock’s shoulders. He pressed his nose into the inky curls at Sherlock’s nape as O’Neal took Sherlock by the hips and leaned in for a kiss.

John’s stomach flipped even as his cock pulsed and thickened. He’d considered this moment a lot over the course of the last couple months—searched his heart and tried to predict just how he’d respond to other men putting their hands and mouths on Sherlock. He knew he had a jealous streak—not his finest personality trait—but this wasn't like some bloke chatting Sherlock up in the queue at Tesco. This was something John had arranged _for Sherlock_. And now, standing not ten feet from where Sherlock— _his Sherlock_ —was being thoroughly snogged by a handsy sargeant, the slick swirl of possessiveness and arousal was undeniable.

John cleared his throat. “Time to move this to the bed, I think.”

“Yes, sir,” O’Neal growled, immediately herding Sherlock and Walker backwards.

Sherlock’s hit the mattress and laid back—spread himself out on the cheap polyester bedspread. John could see the excitement in Sherlock’s eyes—the glint of the sun over a rough chop sea—and had to reach down to adjust his thickening cock.

O’Neal knelt up over Sherlock’s chest, pressed a hand against the wall to steady himself, and slid his long, uncut prick to Sherlock’s open and eager mouth. John swallowed hard. “That’s it,” he heard himself say, rough voice echoing through his head. “Feed him up good.”

The next fifteen minutes were a blur: O’Neal burying his free hand in sable curls as he thrust hard and fast; Walker opening Sherlock up with long, thick fingers before hoisting pale legs over his shoulders and hammering home; the sounds of sex—slick squelches and grunts and long, drawn out moans.

After O’Neal unloaded down Sherlock’s throat and Walker came deep in his arse, John went to Sherlock’s side. He traced the sharp edge of Sherlock’s cheekbone, down to his chin—dragging through a mixture of saliva and spunk. Another man’s semen. John swiped through it, brought his finger up, and considered the glistening, milky streak.

“You missed some,” he said, and pressed his finger against the pliant seam of Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock’s eye went wide, then fluttered closed as he wrapped his tongue around John’s finger. “There you go, love.”

Sherlock’s eyes drifted open, dreamy and lust-drunk. “John.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Magnificent.”

John smiled, equally relieved and indulgent. “Ready for more?”

“God, yes.”

John smoothed his hand down Sherlock’s arm and stood. He turned back to the men, seven more eagerly waiting their turn, and barked for the next pair.

Peterson and Schmidt ambled up, wet-tipped cocks leading the way. They put Sherlock on his hands and knees, Peterson fucking into his mouth with slow and steady thrusts while Schmidt plowed him hard and fast from behind.

Schmidt had been a mouthy private when John knew him in Kandhar, and it seemed the passage of time hadn't changed a thing. “Bloody buggering fuck that’s nice,” he said, slowing his pace to better savor the tight cling of Sherlock’s arse. “Thought he’d be sloppy after Walker’s massive knob, but he’s a fucking vice.”

Across the room Walker chuckled. He wrapped his hand around his large, flaccid penis, and waggled it in Schmidt’s direction. John rolled his eyes skyward, but the corner of his mouth curled in amusement.

“Oh, yeah,” Schmidt groaned, staring intently at the junction of cock and arse hole. He rocked his hips—sawed his prick back and forth in an exaggerated motion—and cursed. “Fucking hell he’s got a fantastic arse. Don’t reckon I’ve ever had such a greedy hole. _Christ_. You’re a lucky bastard, Doc.”

John took a few steps forward and leaned in to get a closer look at the thorough rogering Schmidt was bestowing on his husband. It was so strange to see Sherlock’s pretty pink rim stretched around a cock that wasn’t his own. His stomach swooped again—the sensation of weightlessness at the peak of a roller coaster—and he felt his cock pulse out a thick dribble of precome. “That I am,” he answered, laying a hand on the curve of Sherlock’s rump and gave him a squeeze. “That I am.”

Peterson came first, hand cupped around the back of Sherlock’s head and bucking into his yielding mouth. After he pulled back, Sherlock fell to the mattress like a rag doll and Schmidt wasted no time in gathering him up at the hips and fucking into him like a toy—a hole to be used.

“Don’t come inside him,” John ordered.

Schmidt looked over to John, rhythm never faltering as he pulled Sherlock back onto his cock over and over again. He sounded mildly offended as he asked, “Why not?”

John gave him a sly smile. “Because I want you to unload all over that fantastic arse you keep going on about.”

A few groaning, panting, cursing minutes later, Schmidt did just that—pulling out of Sherlock just in time to splatter the curve of his arse and dip of his back with thick ribbons of come. He collapsed onto the mattress with a gasped _shit_ , and threw his arm over his eyes. “Think I blew a fuckin’ fuse.”

John huffed a distracted laugh, as he examined the milky white streaks glistening on Sherlock’s skin. He loved the sight of his own semen marking that lithe body. Like filthy abstract art on a living canvas. But this. This was someone else’s work. And John was torn between wiping it clean and adding to it himself.

He swiped through a stripe, walked around the bed, and offered his finger to Sherlock. Sherlock raised himself up, lifted lust-addled eyes to John’s face, and stuck out his tongue like he was receiving a goddamn Eucharist.

“Fucking hell,” John murmured as a fresh wave of arousal swept through him.

He smeared his finger over the flat of Sherlock’s tongue, then leaned in to kiss him. He took his time, licking deep into Sherlock’s mouth to gather up the taste of Schmidt and Peterson and O’Neal.

John had to pull back before he lost all control. They weren’t quite halfway through.

John grinned down, ran a gentle hand through Sherlock’s curls. “So that’s what a slag tastes like,” he teased, and hoped it wasn’t crossing a line.

Sherlock’s cheeks went scarlet, but he didn’t try to suppress the pleased smile that curled his lips. John breathed a sigh of relief.

He carded his fingers through Sherlock’s hair one more time. “Ready for more?”

Sherlock batted his eyes in a coquettish display, proving that while he was close to being fucked out of his mind, he was still very much in control of his higher faculties. “Yes, sir.”

“Parker. Singh. You’re up.”

Now, John kneeled in front of the creaking mattress, watching Sherlock skid back and forth on his hands and knees—moving with the force of the man plowing into him from behind.

"You're doing fantastic," John said, soft and reassuring, as he wiped come from the blade of Sherlock's cheek. Parker had made a mess of him—pulled out of his luscious mouth and sprayed his face with thick, white spunk. Gorgeous.

Jeffries sidled up to the mattress, eagerly stroking his dark cock. John ignored him. He could wait his turn while John saw to his lovely cock-slut. "How're you feeling?"

Sherlock eyes fluttered closed, the lashes clumped and spiked with a mixture of semen and brimming tears of pleasure. "So good," he panted, his voice hoarse—his throat well used.

"Ohhh... Fuck!"

John looked up to see Lieutenant Singh throw his head back and thrust balls deep into Sherlock's arse. "Yes," Singh moaned, deep and throaty. "That's it. Yes. Yes!"

Sherlock cried out, his hips rocking as he took another load. John smiled—fond and so full of pride. "That was wonderful, Sherlock. Let me take a look at you."

Singh stumbled back, spent cock in hand, and John stood. He ran his palm along Sherlock's back, gently encouraging him to lower his shoulders and tip up his hips—to present his arse for inspection. When he reached the other end, John took both plush cheeks in his hands and spread Sherlock wide. He whistled at the sight that greeted him.

"My sweet little come dumpster," John crooned. "You are absolutely filthy."

He ran his thumbs from Sherlock's perineum, over his loose hole, and up to his tailbone. His skin was tacky with drying semen and lube, his rim was red and puffy with rough use. He swiped two fingers through a slick dribble of fresh come and pressed them against Sherlock's loosened hole. They slid in easily, and John watched with a critical eye as he pumped in and out. No tears, no blood. He glanced the pad of one finger over the swollen nub of Sherlock's prostate, and smiled at the breathy keen that came from the other end of the mattress.

John slipped his fingers out and gave Sherlock's arse a loving squeeze. He looked at the other men in the room—Walker, O’Neal, and Peterson sprawled out on the second queen bed, Parker and Singh settling in at a small round table, and Schmidt smoking at the window. He boggled at the reality of this moment. These men had been inside Sherlock. They knew the sweet pull of his mouth and the gripping tightness of his arse. They had experienced the textures of him.

But they didn't know the deep rumble of his laugh and they’d never witness the spark of deduction in his ocean-storm eyes. They’d seen the flesh but they didn’t know the dazzling depth of the mind or the aching tenderness of his heart.

The last three stood around the mattress—cocks hard and leaking, eyes ravenous—as they waited for the go-ahead. "One more round, then he's done." John's voice brooked no argument. "Jeffries, you get his mouth. Grant, you can take that sloppy arse." John turned his attention to the last man. Blaine was a buddy of Parker's—not military, but keen to run a train on a posh slag when the opportunity presented itself. He looked crestfallen as he watched the other men sidle up to the bed.

"Sorry, mate," John said, sincerely apologetic.

The kid looked so damn sad with his shoulders slumped and flagging erection in hand. John couldn't let him leave disappointed. "Oi, Peterson. How 'bout you lend the kid a hand? Show him how you do it in the RAF."

Peterson lifted his head from the mattress and looked at John, then at Blaine. A slow smile curled his lips and he gestured the kid over.

With that problem solved, John could turn all his attention back to the spectacular vision that was Sherlock Holmes splayed out on the bed, ready to be used.

“Put him on his back,” John ordered. “I want to see his face while he’s getting plowed.”

Jeffries and Grant flipped him over, running gentle hands down his flanks and over his chest. Sherlock stretched his neck and angled his head, mouth open and ready to be filled. Jeffries took a moment to consider the best approach, and settled on leaning over the bed with one knee propped on the mattress and his hands bearing his weight. He began with a slow rhythm—testing Sherlock’s limits—and building in speed until the mattress rocked underneath them.

John came up to stand beside Grant, watching as he lined up—plump, rosy cockhead pressing against a slick, loose hole—and pushed in. John’s mouth watered at the sight. “Take your time,” he said, breathless. “Make him feel every inch.”

He watched, utterly rapt, as Grant slowly pressed in—thickly veined prick sinking deeper and deeper, until at last he bottomed out. John exhaled, a harsh breath through his nose and ran his hand up Sherlock’s pale, creamy thigh, curled his fingers, and let the nails bite into the flesh. Sherlock keened around the thick cock in his mouth. John gave Grant an approving nod—permission to pull back and carve in again. Permission to fuck him deep and hard.

Grant moved with powerful thrusts, pistoning with an ever-building force. Like the roll of thunder after a lightning strike, Sherlock grunted with each wet snap of hips. And John felt his mouth flood at the sight, the sound. He observed every detail—the twine of bluish veins on Grant’s pumping cock, the stretch of Sherlock’s glistening rim, the matting of sparse dark hair around that well-used hole.

_Fuck._

It was too much. He could no longer stand idly by and watch Sherlock get pounded into oblivion.

But what surprised John, what made him suck in his breath in silent revelation, was that he had no desire to push Grant away. No desire to yell at Jeffries to back off, remove his cock from Sherlock’s throat this very second. That twist in his gut wasn’t because he wanted this to stop.

He wanted to join them.

“Oh, Christ,” John whispered, shock mingled with shame.

Still firmly holding Sherlock’s leg, he slid his free hand into the cradle of Sherlock’s pelvis. He brushed his fingers over the junction of thigh and groin, stroking along the stretch of tendon. Grant paused, cock pulled halfway out and gave John a questioning look.

“Can I just. . .” was all John managed as he ran the pad of his finger along Sherlock’s rim. He circled the messy margin where Grant pierced Sherlock’s body.

John licked his lips, considering.

Hesitantly, he crooked his finger, slipped down and pressed in. Farther up the mattress, Sherlock moaned—a brazen sound of surprise and pleasure. John tucked his finger in deeper, to the second knuckle, and paused. It was amazingly hot and tight. A slick, molten core—hard on one side and yielding on the other. He pulled back an inch, pushed in deeper, and bit his lip at Sherlock’s desperate rumble of pleasure.

“That’s it, love,” he murmured, stroking slowly in and out. He ran a soothing hand up and down Sherlock’s thigh. “That’s perfect.”

“Doc. . .” Grant whispered, a rough edge to his voice.

“Right.” He pushed his finger in as deep as the angle would allow. “Go. Slowly.”

Grant pressed in—hard cock sliding against John’s finger—then carefully pulled out. Again, a gentle in and out. The pace was glacial at first, both of them so conscientious of the sounds Sherlock made, of the tension quivering through his body. John slipped his finger up to the very top, feeling the pillowy slide of his arsehole against the calloused pad of his finger. The bump of Sherlock’s prostate was almost unnoticeable, and if John hadn't known his body so well, he might have missed it.

“Little faster now,” John ordered, and Grant groaned in gratitude.

John pulsed his finger in time to the quickened thrusts, massaging the nub of Sherlock’s prostate. He rubbed tiny, fluttering circles that he knew would drive Sherlock absolutely mad. The man was exquisitely sensitive and nothing broke down his barriers—nothing made him thrash and beg and howl in pleasure—like prostate play.

Sherlock keened, high and nasal. His hands scrabbled at the bedspread, slipping on the cheap fabric and unable to find purchase. Not that it mattered much—spitted as he was, he couldn't arch or buck without dislodging one or both of the cocks currently stuffing him full.

“Ohhh,” John crooned, petting Sherlock lightly. “You like that don’t you?”

Sherlock moaned, this time a low sound of agreement, and Jefferies’ steadily pumping rhythm suddenly faltered. He pressed forward, burying himself down Sherlock’s throat.

It was the vibration, John was sure. That deep, rumbling bass had caused him to lose control on more occasions than he cared to count. And Jefferies clearly hadn’t stood a chance, as he pulled away—spent cock giving a few last, feeble twitches.

No longer being pinned down and face-fucked, Sherlock writhed—beautifully desperate, as he twisted his shoulders and lolled his head from side to side. His cock pulsed, a thick ribbon of precome unspooling from the tip.

“John!” he cried out, voice weak and rough.

“I’ve got you, love,” John answered, rubbing his finger harder against Sherlock’s prostate.

“John,” Sherlock repeated, more forceful—almost frantic. “John, I’m going to come.”

“No you’re not.” John slowed down, stroking over the swollen nub in firm, sweeping arcs.

“Yes, John. I—ahh.”

“No,” John repeated, more an order than a reassurance. He slipped out his finger and wrapped his hand tight around the base of Sherlock’s cock. With his other hand, he cupped and tugged at Sherlock’s bollocks. “Not with another man’s prick in you, you’re not.”

Sherlock arched spectacularly, his body a perfect ivory bow. His cock, now flushed to a ripe plum red, flexed and flexed in John’s hand. He made a sound, like an anguished cry at first, then smoothing out into a moan, and tapering off to a breathless whimper.

But he didn’t come.

The same couldn’t be said for Grant. He shouted a garbled _Jesus fucking Christ_ , and ground his cock deep into Sherlock’s arse.

After Grant pulled out—a fresh load of come dribbling out in his wake. After the men got themselves sorted—wiped down, tucked in, and buttoned up. After they said their goodbyes—quiet and gracious except for Schmidt who clapped John soundly on the back and asked for an invitation to the next round.

After the room cleared out and it was just the two of them, John laid down next to Sherlock. He slipped his fingers through Sherlock’s dark curls, careful not to pull on any come-crusted tangles. Sherlock clutched at the sheets, still desperate and unsated, but obviously not willing to take matters into his own hands.

Because he trusted John to take care of him.

John surged up and kissed him. Fathoms deep and nectar sweet, trying to communicate all the things he couldn’t put into words: how he’d never known love could be like this—precious and resilient, consuming and sustaining; the devotion that suffused him down to the marrow of his bones; the joy he experienced every time he made Sherlock smile.

“God, you’re amazing,” John whispered, soft and tender against gasping lips. “Tell me what you need. Anything, love. Anything at all.”

Sherlock rolled his hips—fucking up into the open air—and whined, “John.”

“If you want it, I can suck you off right now.”

Sherlock sobbed, a broken sound of need.

“Or,” John continued, “we can go back home and I can take proper care of you.”

Sherlock gathered the bedspread in white-knuckle fists and took a deep, slow breath. When he could finally open his eyes they were like seaglass—pale and soft and foggy. “Home.”

Quiet tension bloomed in the back of the cab as they rode back to Baker Street. Sherlock, pliant and exceedingly tactile, leaned against John for the duration. He ran a hand up John’s thigh and nuzzled into his neck. So desperate. John turned his face into Sherlock’s tangled curls and kissed him. He murmured quiet affirmations: _you’re lovely, you were amazing, I’m so lucky to have you. I love you._

When they arrived the pavement was blessedly clear of pedestrians. The night air was refreshingly cool and the citrine glow of streetlights kept the early autumn darkness at bay. John trundled Sherlock through the door and up the stairs, not pausing to take off their coats or empty their pockets.

They went straight to the bathroom, where John turned on the taps to the bath. He added epsom salt and a drizzle of lavender bath oil—a concoction he personally enjoyed after week-long cases that culminated in following his insane husband in a mad dash down back alleys. Within minutes the room began to fill with wisps of soothing steam.

The rush of water against porcelain was the only accompaniment to Sherlock's slow divestment. John reverently peeled off his layers. Coat, jacket, shirt. Shoes, socks, trousers, pants. Leaving him bare. Exposed.

Beautiful.

He smoothed his hands down the curve of Sherlock’s shoulders, over the ridge of his collarbones, around the faint definition of his pectorals. His palms followed the familiar curve of his rib cage—moving to the slow cadence of Sherlock's breathing, the steady thump of his heart. With each gentling sweep of his fingers, he absorbed that vitality, soaked it in, transmuted it, and pressed it back in. _You're brilliant, I love you, we're all right._

When the tub filled, he guided Sherlock in. And as Sherlock sank into the foggy water, redolent of pastoral blossoms and a hint of medicinal chalk, John sat down on the rim. He took a soft flannel and Sherlock's sandalwood infused soap, and slowly began to lather every inch of perfect alabaster skin. Throat, arms, hands. Chest, stomach, back. Thighs, calves, feet. He abandoned the flannel once he reached Sherlock's groin, using his bare hands to wash those intimate places: brushed his fingers along the delicate skin of his scrotum, gently squeezed the resilient globes of his bollocks; ran a sudsy fist up the soft length of his penis; swirled a fingertip under the thin veil of his foreskin. He slid his hand down, between Sherlock's legs, and massaged his perineum. Then slipped back further, passed the raw furl of Sherlock's anus, to softly scrub at the cleft of him. To clean off any residual traces of those other men.

Sherlock arched up, hissed.

“All right?”

Sherlock nodded. “Sensitive.”

John hummed, he could only imagine. He pulled his hand back, cradled Sherlock’s bollocks again—rolled them like his own personal meditation balls. Through the cloudy bath water, he saw Sherlock’s cock begin plump.

“You were so fantastic tonight,” John said, low and desperately adoring. His hand trailed up, fingers wrapping lightly around Sherlock’s thickening shaft. He stroked slowly, teasing Sherlock to full hardness. “What do you want? Anything. You deserve anything you want.”

Sherlock squirmed, warm water lapping at the rim of the tub. “I want to come.”

“Of course, love.”

“With you inside me.”

John’s hand stilled. He stroked his thumb over the slick crown—a contemplative strum. “Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sherlock smiled up, softly reassuring. “Of course I’m sure.” He reached up, ran wet fingers from John’s silvering temple down the curve of his jaw. “Nobody else could fill me the way you do. Nobody else could make me feel the way you do. It’s always you, John Watson.”

John caught Sherlock’s hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing his lips into the knot of each third knuckle. _God_ , how he loved this man. With every cell—every atom—in his body. He’d never known it was possible to feel this way. It was consuming and addicting and exhilarating, and yes sometimes a bit terrifying.

But today. Today had been something else entirely. Today John had emptied himself out, gave himself over to Sherlock’s desire, and allowed himself to be refilled with Sherlock’s pleasure. He’d put aside every selfish impulse and given in to Sherlock’s deepest fantasy. Because he loved Sherlock so fucking much, and he knew what it must have cost him to confess what he’d wanted—to have allowed himself to be so vulnerable. There had been no other way to repay that trust, but to give him what he’d asked for.

It was that thought that had John pulling Sherlock to his feet, wrapping him in their thickest towel, and shepherding him to the bedroom. He turned down the duvet and guided Sherlock to slip into the cool, satin-smooth sheets.

The warm glow of the bedside table gilt the room, bathed everything in amber. John ran his hands over the softly lit topography of Sherlock’s body. He mapped out the alabaster planes of his shoulder blades and down the burnished shadow of his spine. He danced his fingers over the creamy, plush bounty of Sherlock arse cheeks and ghosted down the cleft in between.

Sherlock sighed and squirmed, rocked his hips from side to side until his thighs just kissed apart. “John. . .” It was barely more than a breath, a reedy exhale of desire.

“Oh God, love,” John whispered, nearly dizzy with the need to give Sherlock everything he wanted. “All right. Just give me a sec.”

Desperate to press himself skin to skin against Sherlock’s long, lean body, John pulled off his jumper, his shoes, his socks. He yanked his belt open and fumbled with his flies, and finally pushed his trousers and pants down past his knees—leaving them in a heap on the floor.

He sank down on mattress, thighs cradling Sherlock’s hips and palms smoothing up his back. Slow. Considerate. Considering. This was an offering he intended to savor.

John lowered his head, traced his lips along Sherlock’s spine, between his shoulder blades, against his nape. He mouthed along the thin skin behind his ear and whispered, “I love you.”

 _I love you. I love you. I love you._ He pressed the words into Sherlock’s skin over and over, down the smooth slope of his back and up the ample curves of his arse. _I love you. I love you. I love you._ He parted the luscious cheeks and kissed—soft and sweet and open-mouthed—the into cleft.

Sherlock was still a bit loose, red and swollen, and John kissed him tenderly, licked delicate swipes along the abused rim. He used his lips and tongue to soothe, to comfort, to reacquaint himself with the intimate taste and texture. Sherlock's body was as supple and pliant and delicious as ever. His own. Always.

Once Sherlock was ready—writhing and whining and slickly dilated around John's tongue—John pulled back, wiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand, and reached over Sherlock’s body to rummage in the nightstand for lube. He slicked Sherlock’s hole—ran his fingertips around and around, then dipped in. Sherlock didn’t need any more in the way of preparation, but John indulged himself on the endlessly satisfying way Sherlock’s puckered rim gripped him, pulled him in. He twisted around, slid the pads of his fingers along the hot, soft walls.

“Please, John,” Sherlock whined, voice aching. He tilted his hips, presented himself impatiently.

John gave a low chuckle at the display. As if he needed to be further enticed. He pulled his fingers out and gave Sherlock’s rump a gentle tap. “Alright, love.”

He smeared the slick over his achingly hard cock, pumping slowly from root to tip and working an extra dollop into his slit. His prick flexed in his grip, already so sensitive—fit to burst after a prolonged state of arousal. He took a deep breath, wrapped his fist around the base and squeezed, trying to calm the thrum of need that roared through him with every beat of his heart.

With one hand spreading Sherlock’s cheeks apart and the other guiding his cock, John carefully pushed in.

Sherlock's hole engulfed his flaring crown and he pressed and pressed. He watched, mouth watering, as the head caught momentarily on the stretched rim, then popped in. He moaned, a rasp of air dragging the sweet sound of pleasure from his throat.

Christ. That was the best part. That first breach into a yielding, eager body.

Sherlock whimpered—fingers clutching at the sheets, curling into fists. There was a tension in his back and a stiffness in the cant of his hips that gave John pause.

“You all right, love?” He asked with a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder blade.

Sherlock nodded, inhaled, shook his head. “I just need a moment.”

“Okay.”

John felt the rise and fall of Sherlock’s back as he tried to relax, heard his breath tremble out on each exhale. It only took about ten seconds for John to realize this wasn’t going to happen. It wasn’t as if Sherlock was too tight, too tense.

He was too raw. Too tender. Too well used.

Sherlock seemed to come to the same conclusion, as he buried his face in the pillow and huffed. “You must think I’m an idiot,” he mumbled into the downy softness.

John gently pulled out and snugged his cock in the cleft of Sherlock’s plush arse. “You're not an idiot, Sherlock.” He rocked up, pressed his lips into the side of Sherlock’s neck—up to his nape and down along the strong crest of his shoulder. “I do think you love to push your limits. You certainly love to push mine.”

“I did that tonight,” he said, head now turned to the side but voice still quiet. “Pushed my limits. Pushed yours.”

“Yes.”

“Was it too much?” He sounded hesitant, uncharacteristically unsure.

John’s heart clenched. He hated to hear that doubt, that tremulous apprehension. Sherlock exuded confidence in everything—from the set of his shoulders as he approached a crime scene, to the proprietary hand he placed on the small of John’s back when they walked over the threshold at Angelo’s. This was a man who would whip a corpse without compunction and who could read your life story in the soles of your shoes. His voice should never carry even the tiniest hint of uncertainty.

But, then, that wasn’t fair. Was it? Because, as much as he knew Sherlock hated to admit it, the man was also very human. Just as prone as to insecurities. Just as frightened of being hurt if he exposed his tender underbelly. Just as afraid to make a mistake, to lose something he loved.

“No, love,” John said. He skimmed his hands up Sherlock’s sides and down his arms, finding his still-cleaned fists and entwining their fingers. “Tonight wasn’t too much. It was. . . God. It was fucking incredible. I’ll be honest, I was sure how I was going to react when those men started to put their hands on you. I wasn’t sure if I’d get jealous or, Christ. I don’t know. Angry? But I tell you what. I don’t think I’ve ever been so hard just from watching something.”

“Yeah?” Sherlock sounded breathless, hopeful.

“Oh yeah.” John pressed his hips forward, dragging the length of his cock between Sherlock’s cheeks until the wet head kissed the warm skin at his sacrum. “Just thinking about it has me aching all over again.”

“John.” The name fell from Sherlock’s lips with a sigh. Relief and surprise and sweet desperation.

John rocked again and again, slowly building a rhythm. He set his mouth to the junction of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder—kissed and licked and sucked. Sherlock arched back with a gasp, raising his arse until the angle opened up that hot, damp cleft.

John pulled back, clawed his fingers down the porcelain plane of Sherlock’s back, and grabbed his hips. He squeezed the pliant muscles of Sherlock’s arse in his palms, pulled the cheeks apart until his cock settled fully into the trough between, then pushed them back together.

“Fuck. . .” he drawled, low and rough. “Fucking Christ that’s nice.”

He pumped into that perfect channel, slick with spit and lube and precome. And when he looked down, he nearly choked on a moan at the sight of his shiny scarlet cockhead pushing between those smooth, pale globes.

It reminded him just how foreign it had looked to see those strange cocks sliding into this same arse. How incongruous. How hot.

“I watched four different men put their pricks here,” John said, wondrous. He let go of Sherlock’s arse and grabbed himself by the base of his cock, gliding the wet tip from taint to tailbone and back. He rubbed a circle over Sherlock’s hole. “Right here.”

“Yes,” Sherlock whimpered.

John pressed forward by a fraction of an inch, just enough to feel the tension in the rim start to give. “It was fucking brilliant.”

“John.” Sherlock keened.

John shifted again, went back to rutting between Sherlock’s cheeks. His thrusts were faster now, following the harsh snap forward and slow pull back of his hips. He closed his eyes, let his head fall back, and remembered.

“I loved it. Loved watching them spear you open from both ends. Loved how you took everything they gave you. Their fat cocks. And. . . Christ.” He was panting now, ecstatic with the memory and the sizzling approach of orgasm. “I loved seeing their come on you. Everywhere. On your face, your skin. Leaking from your arsehole. Oh! Oh, fuck!”

He took his cock in hand, running a tight, quick fist over the head. He was there. Right there. Fuck. _Fuck!_

Then he remembered. Sherlock in the bath, so soft and open, asking to come with John inside him. He couldn’t take John’s cock right now, but that didn’t mean John couldn’t still be inside him.

The coil of pleasure tightened at the base of his spine, his bollocks. He felt the delicious way it built and built. Until. “Oh, Christ!”

He pressed his cock against Sherlock’s hole.

Pushed the tip in until the flaring crown was nudging at the rim.

And came.

Pulse after pulse into Sherlock’s body. Until come trickled from his hole in pearly streaks. Filled him. Just like Sherlock had asked.

John floated back into himself, dazed and out of breath, but aware enough to feel the jostle of Sherlock’s body and see the frantic movement of his shoulder. Sherlock wailed, a sound of pure bliss.

John cursed and grabbed Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock cried out in protest, and John rolled him over. “You’re not gonna toss yourself off,” he explained, spreading Sherlock’s legs and settling between them. “You deserve better than that.”

He didn’t wait for a reply before sinking his mouth down on Sherlock’s cock. Taking the length down to the root in one smooth movement. He planted a palm on either side of Sherlock's hips and set to work. He sucked long and languorous draughts up and down the hot satin shaft, drawing out the pleasure until Sherlock’s thighs trembled around his head.

John shifted up, bobbing quick and tight over the head, and swirling his tongue around to gather up drizzles of sweet, tangy precome. He pumped one hand around the base and slipped the other behind Sherlock’s bollocks, to finger at his leaking hole.

Sherlock cried out, bucking hard and thrusting deep. John swallowed him down, let his throat caress the briny head of Sherlock’s prick.

“Oh, John!” Sherlock moaned, broken and ecstatic. He brought his hands down on John’s head, cupping the back of his skull and holding him in place and he fucked up into John’s mouth.

John felt the flutter of Sherlock’s arsehole against the tip of his finger just before the first hot burst of semen slid down the back of his throat. It was like a floodgate being opened. Sherlock came, gasping and shuddering, and seemingly endless.

John swallowed and swallowed, finally pulling off when his lungs began to scream for oxygen. Come and saliva dripped down his chin, stray tears traced down his cheeks, and he sucked in a ragged breath like a man just pulled from the ocean.

Below him, Sherlock looked utterly wrecked—flushed from chest to cheeks, hair wild against the sheets, and eyes hazy with bliss. John wiped his hand across his mouth, smearing the mess over his cheek, and dove down to taste the sated breath on Sherlock’s lips.

They kissed, deep and slow and gently reassuring. As if some paradigm had just shifted. Perhaps it had. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, held him close, pressed their skin together.

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered against corner of John’s mouth. “Tonight was. . .”

John pulled back just enough to look into the glittering sea foam froth of Sherlock’s eyes. “Good?”

“Perfect.”

John smiled, wide and open with satisfaction and relief. “Anything for you, love. Anything at all.”


End file.
